


Needs an Audience

by thisprettywren



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:56:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On nights like this, there are rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needs an Audience

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the the humiliation (situational) square in [kink_bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/); see my card [here](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com/34137.html).

John’s fingers are warm and dry against the skin of my upper thigh, threading the long ends of the nylon straps through the holes he’d sliced in the pockets of my jeans. He smoothes the nylon so it sits flat against my skin, uses his elbow to nudge my legs wider; tugging against my wrist as he knots the straps securely at the inside crease of my hip. A slim band of even pressure running from the knot at the underside of my wrist, not digging in. Just enough pressure to feel, and I pull at my left wrist as he moves on to the right. Caught.

John brushes a kiss against my abdomen just below my navel as he stands, folds the waist of my jeans back up over my hips. A decisive tug as he does up the zip.

“There,” he says, grasping my shoulder and turning me firmly round to face the mirror. “No one will even be able to tell.”

I look almost casual, natural, standing with both hands thrust into my pockets. I flex my elbows, pull at them again; they stay put. I can feel the warmth of a flush starting to creep up my throat; chance a look at my own face in the glass, colour just beginning to rise in my cheeks.

I need something to focus on, need to school my thoughts. I turn one thigh outward, frown at the small bulge just visible under the fabric. “You can see the knots,” I say with a frown (need to protest this; always do).

John shrugs. “You’d better hope you’re right about everyone being so unobservant then,” he says, dismissively. I almost shiver at the undercurrent of ironic annoyance in his voice; a reminder of just why it is I’m being punished.

John grabs my mobile from the table, slides it into his pocket. “Come on, then. Unless you’d rather stay here.” _Without me_ hangs unsaid in the air. A flutter of nerves in my stomach and I swallow against it. Follow John out the door.

It’s up to him to hail the cab, obviously. He leans in to give the driver directions I can’t hear and the trapped feeling closes around me, standing on the pavement in the open air, waiting for John to pull open the cab door so I can slide in. Dreadfully exposed. (Wish I had my coat, for that reason alone, but it’s warm and the empty sleeves would just make my situation even more obvious.) I inch awkwardly across the seat; John’s amused, watching, one eyebrow quirked upward. I’m graceless. I’m never graceless.

By the time I finally manage to squirm into place, I’m sure the cab driver must know—how could he not have noticed?—but there’s just a flash of his eyes in the rearview mirror before we’re pulling out into traffic.

I brace myself against the door, lean my head against the glass, smooth and cool against my temple. John has his head turned away, watching the city glide by outside his own window. Ignoring me. (Genius needs an audience; John offers me his disregard, demands I understand it. I do and I don’t.)

I don’t know where we’re going. Against the rules to ask; against the rules to speak at all, in fact, on nights like this. Outside the flat John permits only yes or no answers, and then only to questions he’s asked me directly. His only explanation before leaving had been “Dinner first,” in a tone so full of decisiveness there’s no room for my questions. Half a dozen possibilities in the area to which we’re headed; impossible to know. I close my eyes in frustration; I don’t need them.

The cab stops in front of— ah. Thai restaurant. Gaudy decorations, hovering waitstaff, overcooked pad thai. Vile. John adores it.

“Here we are,” he says, holding the door open. I unfold from the seat, all awkward legs and no leverage. A moment of unsteadiness as I stand but John doesn’t hold out a supporting hand; he’s off already, moving toward the restaurant. Doesn’t hold the door for me, and I make it just in time to catch it with my elbow, slide through.

No one seems to have noticed but my throat is warming again, the flush rising. The lighting inside is blessedly low but it’s crowded, and my thoughts are trapped somewhere between _too much data_ and the possibility of being seen in return, going a bit fuzzy round the edges. Focus on John.

“Don’t scowl.” He’s chastising me and I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, clench my hands into fists in my pockets. Keep my eyes on him.

He chatters brightly while we wait for the waiter to come take our order. My menu sits untouched in front of me; he’s pretending not to notice. I can see he does. Hot flood of anxiety (unexpected; shouldn’t have been) blooming up my spine when the waiter appears. We haven’t done this before, not really, and John could— John could say _anything_ , could order for me and make me sit with it in front of me, could _feed it to me_. He wouldn’t do that, not in public, surely—

He might. He could. I shift in my seat, fist my hands in my pockets. They’re drawing the fabric tight across the front of my jeans. Increasing discomfort. An expected response; still shameful. I can’t focus.

“And for you, sir?” I realise I haven’t heard John order; shoot him a panicked look.

“Nothing for him,” John says evenly, and I let out a sharp breath. Gratitude. “Are you thirsty, Sherlock?”

Instant band of tension again across my shoulders, a stab of anxiety. John always does this: orders me to silence and refuses to ask a direct question until we’re no longer alone. Forcing me to use him to get what I need.

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, terribly dry. “Yes,” I say, and there’s enough tightness in my throat that it almost chokes off the word.

“Some water, then.” John’s tongue dart out to touch the edge of his lip. “With a straw, if you have them.”

He must know, he _must_ , surely everyone does, they can’t be so stupid—

The waiter just nods and winds his way between the other tables, headed back toward the kitchen. My head is swimming.

“What’s wrong?” John asks as soon as he’s out of earshot. It’s a question I can’t answer, and he knows it. “You’re red as a beetroot.”

It’s true. I can feel the heated thrum of blood at the surface of my skin (not only in my face, _Christ_ ). Faint dampness of sweat on the palms of my hands where they’re clenched in my pockets; between them an entirely different sort of pressure. I shift, trying to ease it. I can’t.

“Look at you.” John’s closer, leaning across the table on his elbows, blue eyes holding me down with the weight of their gaze. He pitches his voice low so I have to slouch toward him to hear. “You love it, don’t you. It’s so obvious. I could bring you off right here and you’d love that, too.” He leans back; pressure at my groin, the tread of his boot— _oh_. My breath catches. “I could. No control at all.” The pressure disappears, relief and disappointment, and I draw in a sharp inhale.

I ought to protest. Want to, almost; can’t. Might not, even if I could, my brain already flooded. John’s right; must be, otherwise I would never let him do this. Other things I might let him do, things he could _make_ me do. It would all be more manageable if I were allowed to speak, allowed to use words to funnel and shape my thoughts. I’m not; they rattle around my skull. I’m lost.

(Lost? Not really. John’s here. _John_. It helps.)

John takes his time eating, enjoying his meal. Obvious signs: eyes gleaming, lips wrapping around the tines of his fork like— oh, I _am_ far gone. His quick fingers unwrap my straw, slide my glass where I can reach it. I ignore it until John puts his fork down and says, mildly, “You’ll be thirsty later, don’t you think?”

It’s not a suggestion. I consider angles, flex my spine and suck, the liquid so cold against the back of my throat it’s almost painful. Can’t look normal; must be terribly obvious. My cheeks are on fire. I finish the glass and he smiles in approval.

John finally pushes his plate away, settles the bill. We’re standing to leave when he turns, speaks loudly enough that the next table could hear: “Do you need to use the loo before we go?”

There’s a flood of heat again, up my throat and into my cheeks, so fast I’m slightly dizzy with it, because: no, I don’t, but John’s asking, here, and soon I _might_ and John would have to—

I manage to shake my head. John usually requires verbal answers; doesn’t press it this time, lets me get away with it because he knows that if I open my mouth, I’m going to say _take me home_ or something far, far worse. Allows me silence, the allowance itself speaking more loudly than I am permitted. _See how I know you._

We’re outside, the air cool against my hot skin. John doesn’t hail a taxi (unexpected) and I follow him as he starts walking. He doesn’t speak. We’ve gone two streets when my phone buzzes in his pocket; he slides it out, reads the screen, puts it away again without a word. Can’t be a case, then, but still, the tug of doubt in my mind; frustration at not being allowed to know. I bite my lip.

There are more people crowding the pavement; John doesn’t look at me. I keep my eyes on the back of his head, the spot at the nape of his neck where his hair is softest. Focus. Focussing so hard I almost miss where we’re going, in fact; too much static crowding out the signal. Should have been obvious from the outset.

John’s hand is firm on my elbow; he pulls me into the queue in front of the cinema. “I’ve been wanting to see this for ages.” John lies easily; it’s a test like the rest of it.

He turns his head, profile outlined against a backlit poster, watching my face from the corner of his eye. He knows what he’s asking of me; rather the point, in fact. I loathe the cinema, not just the dull predictability of the films themselves but the physicality of the space, enforced stillness in the dark surrounded by people. Too much data with no purpose.

But: John wants me here, so here I am. (Proving my capacity for it.) He’s still holding my elbow; I nod.

We slide into seats just as the lights are going down. He sits neatly; I fumble, pressing the seat down with the edge of my hip. I can’t tuck my elbows out of the way and they bump against the armrests. I’m all angles and sharp edges; can’t make myself fit. _John, take me home_. Too many sets of eyes around us.

“You hate this, don’t you?” John’s leaning close, his breath hot in my ear.

He knows the answer already; just wants to hear me say it. No allowance for silence this time. “Yes.” More a breath than a word, really.

He chuckles, leans back into his own seat. “Good boy.” I shiver and close my eyes.

The film is American, which means chaotic noise, explosions and shouting. I’ll never understand John’s need to see these things on screen. It’s an effort to hold myself still. He slides his palm along my thigh, steadying; makes it easier and harder, both at once. Two hours to wind myself up while he breathes beside me (me beside him). By the time the lights come up I’m vibrating with tension, the air too close against my skin.

Out on the street John hails a taxi while I shiver, hug my elbows to my ribs (won’t help; not an external sensation). I slide into the seat a little more easily, already learning; John crowds up against me, hip to hip. His hand on my right thigh, fingers inching inward to press against his knot there.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you.” He’s whispering in my ear, chin tilted upward. I can almost feel the rasp of his stubble against my throat; want to lean into it. “I could do it here, and you couldn’t stop me. You wouldn’t even try. You want it, want everyone to know. Need an audience.“ His fingers dig in; I press up into them, gasping.

 _Yes, please_. I hate this; need it (need him). _No, don’t_. My knees fall open; increased pressure from the fabric already tight against the ache in my groin. Trapped on all counts. I shudder.

John draws his hand away, slides across the seat with a chuckle. “Some genius,” he says. I groan, clench my jaw. “You’re squirming.” He sounds disgusted, watching me try to catch my breath. A patch of fog on the window from the heat of my skin. “I don’t know why I bother,” he says, shaking his head.

Let me show you. Please. _John_.

He’s not watching me anymore.

The cab stops in front of the surgery. It’s dark, closed for the night; John lets us in with his key. Holds the door for me, this time. There’s enough light coming in from the street to make out the shapes of the furniture in the dark, and I hope for a moment that he’ll leave the lights off; he flicks them on, the window on the street instantly going black by contrast. On this side of it we’re all too visible, exposed.

John waves a hand around the room. “I have some work to do,” he says. He’s dismissing me. “Nothing important, but you won’t mind waiting.”

I do, of course, and it isn’t a question. Waiting, being ignored: not really my area. Doesn’t matter. He unlocks the door to the exam rooms, slips through, pulls it closed firmly behind him. It clicks decisively. He hasn’t locked it; might as well have done.

I look around the space. Chairs against the wall for waiting, tables with magazines. Plexiglass window (closed) for reception. The custodians have been through for the night; they’re more thorough than most. Not much worth observing. Dull.

There’s a wall clock, a tedious ticking. Worse if I watch; I fold into a chair, lean my head against the wall, close my eyes. Can’t block out the sound, each tick beating against my brain, a steady rhythm ( _nothing important, nothing important_ ). Yet here I am. No way to block it out.

(I’d done it to John earlier, of course. Left him waiting for hours. _Hours_. I shudder. _Surely he wouldn’t—_ )

Abruptly furious, no outlet for it; knock my head against the wall.

(He could, and I’d deserve it.)

_Thump. Thump._

“Sherlock.”

My eyes slide open. John’s standing at the door, holding it open. Watching my face.

“Can you stop that?” He’s phrased it carefully, specifically; wants an answer.

I swallow. “No.”

It’s true; I really can’t; should be able to. Hot flush of shame up my cheeks and there’s a flash of understanding across his face; he can see I’ve reached my limit. (Always knows just how far to push me.)

Then he’s back in the game. He frowns in annoyance, swings the door open wider. “Fine.” His voice sounds resigned. He steps back, beckoning me; I unfold myself cautiously and stand. Let my eyes flick to the clock; forty-three minutes.

“You’re impossible,” he says, following me down the hall. Past the office with his desk (it’s neat; I haven’t interrupted anything). One other door open, light spilling into the dim hallway. “Really, you’re like a child. If I can’t leave you alone for a few minutes to do my work, what _am_ I supposed to do with you?”

It’s an exam room, of course, clean and sterile, too bright. As soon as we’re through the door his hand is on the back of my neck, guiding me forward. Another hand on my hip and he’s bending me forward, roughly, pressing my cheek against the exam table, the paper covering loud under my ear. _Yes._

“You want my attention, is that it?” I’m flushing again, so warm I’ll be sweating soon. “Sherlock,” he says, forcefully. “I need an answer.”

“Yes,” I say, “yes,” and his grip relaxes fractionally against my neck.

“Good,” he says. “Don’t move.” He releases me and I close my eyes, trying to hold still, balanced with just my shoulder and cheek against the table. I can hear him behind me, opening drawers; the tap turning on, he’s washing his hands; a snap as he pulls on gloves. My next inhale shakes in my chest.

Then he’s pressing up against me, using his knee to nudge my legs wider. He pushes my shirt up my back. “Hold still,” he says, and then he’s— _oh_ —he’s cutting through the waistband of my trousers, slicing lower. He folds the fabric open and slides my pants down over my hips, leaving me exposed, the air cold against the heat of my skin. He slides his hands around the front of my hip (drag of latex against my skin), grasps my erection, hot and heavy in his hand.

“So needy,” he says, but his voice is low and breathy. My hips snap forward and he releases me, draws away; it takes me a moment to realise the strangled sound I’ve just heard came from my own throat. My trapped fingers are straining, grasping at the fabric around them, thoroughly useless, desperate to touch—John, myself, it doesn’t even matter.

The snap of a plastic cap as he spreads lube over his gloved fingers. “You look ridiculous,” he says. “I should take pictures,” and I squeeze my eyes shut with a groan, turn to press my forehead against the paper covering on the exam table.

Then his hands are back on me, slick, one finger circling my entrance. His other hand slides forward, the fingers teasing along my perineum and I don’t press into it only because I don’t know which way to go, all my nerve endings firing at once.

“You need to relax for me.”

 _I can’t_ , I want to say, wound too tight through long hours. Focus on my breath. I must manage it because he slides his right hand around to hold my hip and presses one finger inside, first just the tip, then more. _More_. There’s a stretch, a burn that doesn’t dissipate. He’s slow and methodical, careful, working himself inside steadily. Then he withdraws and it’s two fingers, slow progress, working me open.

“Come on,” he murmurs, “open up for me.” His hand disappears from my hip; when it reappears it’s skin on skin (gloveless, must have peeled it off with his teeth, _Christ_ ), rubbing up and down along my back. His hand inside me twists _just so_ , pressure with his fingertips sending a line of fire straight up my spine to my brain.

The pressure doesn’t ease. John isn’t moving and I know what he wants, my body working ahead of my hazy thoughts; roll my hips up and back—

“Yes, Sherlock, like that, good, so good….”

—down again, finding a rhythm that leaves me panting into the table.

It’s perfect and _too much_ , the build of heat and pressure at the base of my spine. My hips snap forward erratically, seeking friction that isn’t there. I jerk violently at my wrists, needing _touch_. Needing John.

“Come on, Sherlock,” John says, his voice sounding choked in his throat. Sharp pain as he flexes the hand on my back, digging in with his nails. “For me.”

I don’t have the words, roll my hips, straining up and back against him.

“You can’t, can you.” He’s breathless; I can feel his arousal pressing against the back of my thigh.

“No.” I need him. Need his hand on me. “Now, John, come on, do it _now_ —”

He tenses, slides his right hand inside what’s left of my jeans, grasps my cock firmly. My nerves spark, light up. Pull, push, flutter of fingers against my prostate, and the air leaves my chest in one final, shuddering breath as I come apart.

He waits while I shudder to stillness; withdraws his fingers, drag of friction against sensitive tissue that pulls a low noise from my throat, and uses both hands to ease me forward until I’m supported more fully by the table. I’m still floating, only distantly aware of the sound of him undoing his own zip, his ragged breath. I peel my eyes open, twisting to look at him over my shoulder.

John: bracing himself against the table with one hand, pumping himself with the other, slack-mouthed and dark-eyed. He notices me watching; grins blearily.

“Come on, John,” I say and he comes with a groan. I can feel it against my low back.

He leans two-handed on the end of the table, drops his head while he catches his breath. He’s still dressed and I watch the rise-fall of his shoulders under the fabric of his shirt. Long minutes before he raises his head, catches my gaze; still grinning.

“I’ll take care of—” He waves a tired hand; his voice is rough. “Just… need a minute.”

“Fine.” Easiest thing in the world, to wait, when I get to watch him put himself back together. _John_.

My thighs are trembling with the effort of supporting my weight by the time he’s done cleaning me up, his own hand shaking as it moves the flannel across my skin. He fingers the knot at the inside of my left thigh for a moment, then sighs and grabs the scissors, shreds the remains of my pockets and slices through the nylon, freeing my hands. I pull my arms forward, gratefully, examine my wrists; deep red indents, but they won’t bruise. (Almost a disappointment.)

I lever myself upright, turn to sit gingerly on the table; toe off my shoes and kick the remains of my trousers down my legs. John collapses beside me and leans over to press a kiss haphazardly against my collarbone.

He isn’t looking at me. His tongue flicks out against his lip.

“Problem?”

Two inhales before he speaks. “Sherlock.” He sounds uncertain. _Wrong, John._ It was perfect. Stop him.

I reach out and rub my thumb against the soft patch of hair at the nape of his neck. He’s tense there; eases slightly into my touch.

“These are ruined,” I say. Meaning the trousers.

John chuckles (slightly forced; getting there). “I’ll buy you new ones.”

He’s still watching me warily; listening for something he needs to hear in my voice. “That won’t get us home.”

Better. There: the lines of tension around his eyes relax. “Give me some credit.” John’s smiling now, eyes sliding up toward mine. “I stashed an extra pair earlier. In my office.”

I’d noticed them missing, of course. Clever, John. Brilliant. I flash my teeth at him, genuine approval. “Very good, John. _Very_ good.” Meaning the trousers, again, and the rest of it.

“Mm.” John hums his agreement, snakes his hand out to wrap itself around my wrist, warm and solid. “ _Genius_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [misanthropyray](misanthropyray.livejournal.com) for the britpick and beta, and [Ivy Blossom](ivyblossom.livejournal.com) for the readthrough! Any mistakes are 100% mine and usually engaged in willingly against sound advice.


End file.
